A Study in Secrets
by Violet Verner
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is a man of mysteries: he solves them, but he is one too. Three secrets of Sherlock Holmes. First one: John's POV, a little dabble into Sherlock's habbits and past. Second: Sherlock's POV, some of his thoughts. Third... find out for yourself.
1. This is What You Do?

Secret one: This is What You Do?

It was a cold day in December. Sherlock and I had just wrapped up another case that had dragged us all around London, so this was the silence after the storm. I found myself in my armchair next to a cup of Earl Grey, the fire roaring, writing up the case on my blog.

The great detective was on the couch ajacent me, sighing his seemingly favorite word- bored. I was doing my best to ignore him. But after the sixth time I said, " Why don't you _do_ something then?" Nothing happened of course. He ignored me just as much as I ignored him. But then suddenly, he popped up, and ran to his room. Most people would have looked up, but I kept my eyes on the screan: I was used to his " dashing about", and I thought nothing of it.

A few days later, I came home from the hospital with groceries in my hands. " No, don't bother to help, I can mange!" I shouted up the stairs to the sitting room, where I knew Sherlock would be, sulking as usual.

I walked in to the room, bags in hand, and found him on my computer-again. I was going to yell at him to GET HIS OWN BLOODY LAPTOP FROM HIS ROOM- but I never got the chance. He just walked past me to his room before I said anything, his blue dressing gown billowing behind him. This was weird. He usually never got up during his periods of meloncholia. I assumed then, that something had to be wrong.

I put the groceries on the table, making sure I didn't knock over the beakers and test-tubes that littered it. I was going to have to talk to him about that later. I checked my laptop for any traces of what he had been doing. But he was a self proclamed scociopath: he didn't leave traces.

Sherlock was hiding something-from me? Why? My insecurity got the best of me- I'll admit. Wow, I sound like a girl. But everyone has their bad days.

I walked to his room and opened the door, not bothering to knock. I saw him typing, on his own laptop, slouched against the head of his bed. It was a short-lived scean. He saw me as soon as I saw him, if not sooner. He shut the computer with a scowl. He shoved passed me. I stood there for a second, confused. What was wrong? I knew he wouldn't tell me, stubborn man that he is, so I was going to find out myself.

It took a while, but the chance came. It was another rainy day. I came home from work, wet. I set up my coat, then walked to the kitchen to make tea. But before I got in, I noticed Sherlock typing, in my armchair. I looked over his shoulder, to see what he was writing. I held back a laugh for a second- but then, I confess, I failed pretty epicly.

" _A Practical Handbook on Bee Culture_?" I chuckled.

" Shut up!" he snapped, and closed the computer. He then proceeded to flop on the couch, facing away from me.

" Sherlock- what's wrong?"

" Nothing. Go make some tea or something, I've got to go to my mind palace." he said, putting his hands together like a steeple. Iron constitution. But there was something wrong. I could always tell. I was his friend, this is what I was to do!

" Sherlock," I said, putting a hand on his bony shoulder. He turned around . Two could play. I was in the Brittish Army. I had a constitution of my own.

" Sherlock Holmes!" I pulled his shoulder towards me. He would have snapped back in his place, but I kept my grip. He sat up.

" What!" he said. I tried to stay calm. " Sherlock. What's wrong? Tell me."

He ran his hands through his black curls.

" Fine. Everyone made fun of me because of my love of bees. Kids at school, Mycroft, father: they all thought it was wossy. I can tell by your left eye you agree so laugh if you want: I couldn't care less. Happy?" He shot all of this out in a two seconds. I could see for a second, a sad shadow pass over his face. But only a short second. It was gone as soon as it came, and the machine took its place.

_Oh. I never- I knew he was bullied but- over this?_

" Hm. No, I'm just glad you've taken up a hobbie that doesn't involve the wall taking a beating," I said walking back to the kitchen. Most people would have given their friend a talk. I wanted to. I wanted to tell him he didn't have to keep anything from me; I wanted to tell him that Mycroft was a fat git, and wasn't to be taken to seriously; I wanted to tell him it was okay, I would never laugh at him: because I was his friend. And most people would have apreiciated that. But he wasn't most people.

So instead, as I made tea, to the best of my ability, I guessed at his favaorite song. And I wistled it: " The Flight of the Bumblebee". And within two minuets, the steady sound of typing blened in with the rhythm of rain.


	2. Why Do You Always Do This?

The Second Secret: Why Do You Always Do This?

(POV OF SHERLOCK)

It was another day in December. In fact, to others, it was_the_ day in December. It was another Christmas. Of course, John took it upon himself to invite nearly all of our aquaintences to 221B to celebrate. I detested it.

I didn't mind when Mrs. Hudson came up, of corse. She made us some bicuts, which are always welcome. She even bought me a Beethoven CD. I already had it, but I didn't mind having doubles. Things were fine, then... until John's girlfriend came over.

It was obvious John had already warned her about "my behavior". She keplt glancing at me like I was going to bite her. I get that a lot, so I didn't mind. Besides, I had things to do. I went on my website, " The Science of Deduction" to check up on a few things. The others made some usless light chat in the mean time.

Third to arrive was Lestrade. He was so joyvial. How could people suddenly be so happy over a useless celebration? Oh... he thought everything was all right with his wife. Hmph.

" Hello, Detective Inspecter!" Mrs. Hudson said.

" Mrs. Hudson. John. Sherlock. Who's this?" he asked jesturing to John's girlfriend. Scocial life. How predictable.

They started to speak more loosly... and loudly... when they let the drinks go around. It was starting to get really annoying.

" Come on, Sherlock, have a drink!" Lestrade said, more than once. I was not going to poisen my good mind with professionally rotted grape juice. After the sixth time, John nudged me in the side. I looked at him, annoyed.

" Sherlock, it's Christmas. Join in in the celebration!"

" Must I?" I sighed.

" Yes, you're the host!"

" You are too..."

" Sherlock!"

" Fine!" I said. I could still show off my prowess, if not mentally. I picked up my violin. Lestrade looked at me and smiled. He doubted I could play. He always did. Time to prove him wrong again. That seemed to be my job.

_What to play?_ I hadn't played a Christmas song since I was a teenager. Ah.

I decided on " We Wish You a Merry Christmas". Obvious,easy, boring. But I could still give it a dramatic flare. So I did.

At the end, everyone clapped. I bowed, the gentleman inside of me beaming. They offered me a drink again. I refused it again. I went back on my website, and they went back to chatting. Everything seemed to be okay... until-

" Hello everyone! It said just to come up, so..." Molly Hooper. With a huge bag of presents. And a short dress, with her hair done, and bright red lipstick. Of corse. Everyone was saying hello.

Whatever. Agh, this was so BORING! My mind needed stimulus. I continued to go on John's blog. I don't know what brought me there. I think I accedentally clicked a hyperlink on my own website. Oh-

" John, the counter on your blog- it's stuck on 1,895,"

" Oh, no, Christmas is cancelled!" he said. If only, I thought- wait-

" You have a picture of me wearing _that_ hat!"

" People like the hat"

" No they don't- what people?" This was getting too far.

Molly Hooper continued, " How's the hip?" she asked Mrs. Hudson

" Oh, it's hetrocious, but thanks for asking." she smiled. She was obviously bothered by it, but she wouldn't show it because... Christmas.

" I've seen much worse. But then again, I do post-mortoms," she said, jokingly. It didn't work. There was a silence in the room. Silly, awkard Molly. " Oh, God, sorry."

" Don't make jokes, Molly." I reminded." I wasn't expecting to say you," she said to Lestrade, " I thought you were going to be in Dorcet for Christmas."

" That's first thing in the morning: me and the wife, we're back together, it's all sorted!" he replied.

" No, she's sleeping with the P.E teacher." I said, helpfuly. How could he not notice? Molly continued, attemepting to be scocial. " And John, I hear you're going to your sister's. Sherlock was complaining-saying," Complaining! Whatever.

" First time ever, she's cleaned up her act. She's of the booze!"

" Nope," I said.

" Shut up, Sherlock!" he replied. Whatever. I continued to type. But then I saw the bag. Ah...

" So, Molly, you have a new boyfriend: you're seeing him this very night and you're giving him a gift?" I said. Maybe I would be scocial.

" Sorry, what?" said she.

" Ah, shut up and have a drink," Lestrade said, putting down some wine in front of me. They were trying to shut me up. Hah. I continued.

" Oh, surely you all must have noticed the gift on the top of the bag! Perfectly wrapped with a bow. All the others are slap-dash at best," I said, standing, getting a closer look. She looked confused. Come on. " So it must be someone special then! Shade of red-echoes the lipstick, either an unconcious accocialtion or one she's trying to_ deliberatly_ encourage," I smiled. That's what people do, right? " Either way, Miss Hopper has luuuve on her mind. The fact that she's serious about him is clear from the fact she's giving him a gift at all: that would imply long-term hopes, however forlorn.

" The fact she's seeing him tonight is eveident from what she's wearing. She's obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and breasts..." I stopped. Oh...

On the tag it said_, " Dearest Sherlock. XXX, Molly"_ Oh no. This meant either my deductions were completely wrong( unlikely) or, she acrually had no boyfriend, but seceretly loved _me_( unfourtunatly, more likely).

" You always say such horrible things. Every time. Always..." she was going to cry. The rest stared at us. I had to do something- so I...

I'm not sure why I did it. No, I'm just dening it. I did it because I was...sorry. Here was( I write this begrudgingly) one of the five people in the world* I trusted, and I just announced to her world that she loved me! ( John later remarked that everyone else knew, and I was the " only machine who couldn't see it" at the time.) So yes, I kissed her on the cheek and apologized.

Gentle Reader, you may be thinking, " This isn't Sherlock! Sherlock Holmes is a self-proclaimed high-functioning scociopath; he doesn't care for feelings." Yes, dear reader, he is a scociopath, and proud to be so- but that is where_ high-functioning_ comes in. I can have one or two feelings and still wear the scociopath badge with pride.

" Why are you writing this, then?" Because, I have had a good deal of free time of late. I was trying to sort out my mind palace a few minutes ago, and this came up. I was trying to deleate it, but another thing must have got in the way. I hope it wasn't improtant, because it has been successfully deleated. Now that I think of it, I may have deleted a James Bond plot. I don't mind so much... But I am drifting.

" Why are you being so honest to me- a stranger?" One: I am a Holmes, so I am not keen on lying. Two: Gentle Reader, you do not exist. You are me. I have been SO BORED of late, this is what I have been driven to. I have no experiments, no violin, no cigarettes, no WI-FI, and no gun to shoot the bloody wall with(more fun than it sounds, I assure you). No skull or John to talk to.

In this small apartment, I have nothing. I have been living a secret life, taking down the Spider's# web: but the main strands are few and far between. I have even gone so far as to disguise myself!

I am now blond, and look remarkably like the spy from_ Tinker, Taylor, Soldier, Spy_( I was forced to watch it with John). That man was lucky, however, because he could wear his siuts! I cannot, for fear of being recoginzed. Even the scarf and coat have to be hidden amongst the botton-ups- how I miss them.

Now I am in dark jeans and tee-shirts, to my chagrin- The Beatles, _Star Trek, Supernatural, Doctor Who_- all of those American fandoms- for now I am an American exchange student working at Starbucks. The dullness of the job is overwhelming, and I come home smelling like coffee.

Unfortunatly, I will have to move soon. I will have to be the short, old book-keeper that I dread being. Lestrade and John have taken a liking to Starbucks, and go to MINE! They sit there every Sunday, ( John still goes to my grave) and talk for a while. It has been two years- I was hoping my little note would make it easier for John to except my death, but it seems not. I have even seen some of our old fans postiong up " I Believe in Sherlock Holmes" posters on my birthday and deathday! Imagine!

Well, I am glad. Soon, I'm not 100 percent sure exactly when- I shall be able to don on the suits and coat and scarf, bring back my sofistication, and my hair- though it will unfortunatly have to stay short for a while... I will see John soon, and Lestrade, and Mrs. Huson- I'll even get to annoy Anderson again. But for now, the game is still afoot.

* The five people Sherlock Holmes(in the show) trusts,: Mrs. Husdson, DI Greg Lestrade, Molly Hooper, Dr. John Watson, and of corse, himself... mostly himself...

# The Spider is Moriraty. " James Moriarty isn't a man at all; he is a spider, in the middle of a web; a criminal web with a thousand strands, and he knows how EACH and EVERY one of them dances." - Sherlock Holmes


	3. You?

I couldn't see a way out. Hope was lost-seemingly. So I had to do it- the unforgivable sin, the last resort: I was going on a blind date.

After my friend Sherlock Holmes' untimely death, making relationships was hard- even the established ones were strained. It took so long to "heal"- but they were meer scabs, easily scrathced off on Christmas, his birthday, his deathday...

By the second year, I was willing to try to move on a little. I wanted to get back into a relationship- the serious kind: Watsons aren't bacholors. But it was hard. Nothing worked anymore.

So a year later, three years after Sherlock's fall, I found myself in a fancy restaurant, wearing a nice suit, my tie strangling me as always. I sat there for a while. 7:15. My date said she would be here at 7:00. But I'm pretty patient. I waited longer.

7:35. She said she was always punctual. I GUESS NOT! I was getting ready to leave, disheartened, when someone sat across from me. This wasn't the short, blond-haired, brown-eyed woman I was looking for. In fact, it wasn't even a woman! It was a tall-ish _man _with icy blue eyes and curly black hair.

_Dear lord! It's- no, calm down, John, it's impossible._ " Excuse me, I think you have the wrong table..." I said, trying to stay calm.

" No, John, I know where I'm sitting." the man said. _He even speaks like-this is wrong..._ I admit, I may have said a few things that aren't okay for children to read, so I'll take that out.

" Who the heck are you?" I said, anger rising.

" Really, John! I'm surprised at you- it's me, Sherlock Holmes!" This was too much for me.

" No, Sherlock Holmes died three years ago- I was there," I faltered, " Now if you'll excuse me-" I got up to leave.

" No, John! Don't- you want me to prove it to you... Fine. Your middle name is Hamish, your birthday is July 7, you love orange- too easy? You have bad sleeping habbits- no. I see, you want me to do the thing only_ I_ can do." I stood there. At first, I thought this was just going to be a kid with a sick joke, but I still listened- and stood there. He continued,

" You had strawberry jam and toast for breakfast, you didn't sleep well last night due to another nightmare, you went to the park a day ago-no, two, and I see that you have been taking medicine for migraines again. You would usually ask me how so in order: crumbs on your coat, under your eyes, mud on your shoes, and the way your eyes stay away from the light. There's more, but I see you believe me now. Thank you, John, I'm a little tired."

He got everything right. I mean, before he went for about ten deductions at once, but he was right- he seemed tired. That wasn't what sold it though. There was one thing- his distinct strangeness.

Sherlock Holmes was a man of many strangenesses- his speech and posutre were over-sophisticated. His people skills were only half- way developed. His knowledge of science was remarkable- his knowledge of feelings was nil. He had excelent personal heigine; his energy on a case was unbeatable, but he had no regard for cleaning up, and his energy off a case was sometimes nothing. But there was one strange thing that no one could simulate- his eyes.

Yes. You can stop your giggling. " Ha-ha, John stares at Sherlock's eyes. Ha-ha." Well, you have to admit, some people do, his eyes change colour every other minute, wich is weird. On that note, you "Johnlock" "shippers" ( I thought that was for fiction!) make me really doubt scociety-we were friends, okay!

Anyway, Sherlock's eyes were weird, Not only do they switch between blue, grey and green, but there is something deeper. For most people, you can see what they feel from their face, what they say, all of that. But Sherlock wasn't most people.

When he didn't want people to know what was going on in his head- they didn't know. But sometimes, if you looked at just the right moment, the machine's eyes let you in. And you could see,

not just the lingering of dreams, the whisps of emotion that most people give off; but a powerhouse of emotion, many times several at once. But then in a blink, the powerhouse would close, and the face of the machine was back.

There was one time though, the machine didn't cover the man. The night of question was at a pool- the pool(See " The Great Game" on the side bar). The bomb was between Moriarty-once again, I refriegn from using strong words, though I have every right-Sherlock and I. Snipers' lasers were trained on our heads, and Sherlock's gun(or the gun he was using-I think it was mine) was trained on the maniac. Then, with a nod from me, trained on the bomb. In those few seconds, I saw four things in his eyes: guilty excitement, fear, pain, and even " I'm sorry".

Those four things I saw now- and I knew, after three years, my best friend, Sherlock Holmes, was alive.

-Now into the personal memories, and out of the blog-

The next thing I knew, a grey mist clouded my eyes, and for the first and last time of my life, I passed out. When I woke up, I found myself on the couch of 221B Baker Street. I knew it was Baker Street because of the distinctive yellow smiley face on the wall.

My tie was off, and my face was wt from my friend's attempst to revive me. Sherlock Holmes was looming over me. He was thinner( I didn't think it was possible!) and his curls were shorter than the last we met, but it was him.

" Ah, John! I never thought you would be so affected-"

"AFFECTED!" I shouted, and gave him a swift punch in the nose.

" Agh! What was-"

" YOU WERE DEAD! I SAW YOU! YOU JUMPED OFF THAT BLOODY BUILDING, AND BLED!" I wanted to keep punching him, but I was weak from the faint, so I just stood there.

" John, I'm sorry. I truly am sorry-but I had to. Let me explain-"

" You'd better, or I'll punch you again," I said. I wanted to cry, to hug him even. But I wouldn't show it. I figured even three years wouldn't change his emotional connections.

I sat in my old armchair, and he in his. He explained to me why he had to do it, that he did it to keep Moriarty's men at bay to tear down his web. What hit me most- though he didn't elaborate- was he did it to save Mrs. Huson, and Greg, and... me. I felt guilty for punching him. I felt angry he didn't come back sooner. But most of all, I felt elated-my final wish for him, the one I made three years ago " Don't be dead". And he did it. Miracles did-do happen.

Thank you for reading and rating! I can't wait until season three! But until then, let's keep fighting Dr. Watson's war- I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES!


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